Night Beach (22 page)

‘I
think
it’ll
work,’
he
says.
‘You
distress
the
photos
in
Photoshop
so
it
looks
like
you’ve

done
something
to
them,
and
then
write
about
it
in
your
process
diary.’

‘You’re
right,
Maximum.
Piece
of
piss,’
Hollywood
says.

‘I’ll
call
it
“Uprising”,
or
something
like
that.’

While
we’re
talking,
I
can
see
surfers
in
the
break
looking
in
the
direction
of
the
wall.
I

think
about
the
Committee,
how
buzzed
they
were
when
we
went
past.

‘“Subversion”,’
I
say.
‘That’s
what
I’d
call
it.’

Hollywood’s
eyebrows
shoot
up.
‘Not
bad.’

Out
in
the
water,
Hollywood,
Max
and
I
hassle
each
other
for
waves,
none
of
us
talking

much.
Hollywood
proves
yet
again
that
he
can
out-‐paddle
the
both
of
us.
He
reaches

right
out
with
his
good
hand,
the
way
you’re
supposed
to,
and
pulls
harder
on
his
left.
It

gives
him
a
weird
action
that
means
he’s
easy
to
pick
out
in
the
line-‐up:
he’s
the
only

surfer
who
paddles
like
he’s
galloping.

The
wind
is
icy,
and
I
lie
on
my
board
while
I’m
waiting
for
the
sets.
It’s
so
strongly

offshore
that
it
holds
up
the
wave
faces,
making
it
hard
to
paddle
onto
them.
Most
of
the

time,
when
you
finally
do
get
to
your
feet,
you
find
you’re
on
a
closeout.
But
every
now

and
then
one
opens
up
enough
to
let
you
go
screaming
down
the
line.
Hollywood
and

Max
use
those
ones
to
try
aerials.
Max
is
a
good
surfer,
dancing
across
the
high
line
of

the
wave,
collecting
speed;
not
like
most
guys
who
just
top
and
bottom
it,
gashing
the

wave
face.
He
hasn’t
got
the
build
for
power.
He’s
tallish
but
slight,
almost
delicate.

There
are
shadows
like
bruises
under
his
blue
eyes.
The
only
time
Max
doesn’t
look

nervous
is
when
he’s
on
a
wave.

I
keep
it
simple,
swinging
out
wide
in
a
bottom
turn
at
the
end,
driving
up
the
face
and

using
the
oncoming
section
to
smack
me
through
a
re-‐entry.
I
swear,
that’s
the
best

feeling.

The
lip
is
like
a
lion’s
paw,
swiping
at
you.
Just
whack,
and
you’re
done.

When
I
can
no
longer
feel
my
feet,
I
tell
the
guys
I’m
going
to
catch
one
in.
The
wind
has

shifted,
coming
from
the
south.

The
water’s
surface
is
scaled,
the
waves
lumpy.

‘I’ve
had
enough,
too,’
Max
says.
‘I
need
to
find
more
things
for
my
sculpture.’

‘I’ll
help,’
I
tell
him.
‘But
I’ve
got
to
get
changed
first.
I’m
freezing.’

We
both
look
expectantly
at
Hollywood,
who
says,
‘Nuh.’

Then
he
paddles
off.

I
make
a
face
at
Max.
‘
Nuh.’

‘Tough
guy,’
Max
says.
‘We
should
just
leave
him
here.’

Walking
warms
me
up.
The
wind’s
in
my
face,
the
sky
is
starting
to
cloud
over,
and
the

ocean
is
grey.
I’m
feeling
surfed
out,
which
is
the
best
kind
of
exhaustion
–
clean
lungs,

aching
arms,
empty
mind.
I
walk
backwards
for
a
while,
looking
at
the
surfers
in
the

break.
Max
is
crossing
the
lagoon
mouth,
heading
towards
the
wall
and
the
deserted

tidal
pool.

For
his
Visual
Arts
project,
Max
is
constructing
a
gannet
with
its
wings
held
out
to
dry,

made
entirely
from
the
plastic
rubbish
that
he
finds
washed
up
on
the
shore.
It’s
a

pretty
obvious
environmental
message.
He’s
going
to
mount
it
on
a
piece
of
driftwood,

which
is
the
perfect
symbol
of
the
natural
beauty
of
the
beach.

Who
can
look
at
driftwood
without
wanting
to
touch
it?

Most
of
the
debris
has
collected
in
a
ragged
line
in
the
soft
sand,
not
far
back
from
the

edge
of
a
little
ridge
formed
by
the
gouging
of
the
shore
break.
I
find
bottle
tops,
three

plastic
spoons,
a
plastic
bottle,
some
ribbon-‐like
stuff
that
might
be
video
tape,
and
a

boogie-‐boarding
flipper.
I
stuff
everything
into
the
pockets
of
my
hoodie,
except
the

flipper,
which
I
carry.

Halfway
between
Walls
and
La
Roy,
I
turn
back.
There’s
a
vibration
in
the
wind,
a

change
in
its
scent,
that
means
it’s
going
to
rain
soon.
The
beach
is
a
completely

different-‐looking
place
from
when
we
arrived,
and
I’m
wondering
why
we
think
reality

is
something
solid
and
concrete.
It
changes
all
the
time.
There’s
nothing
fixed
about
it.

I
used
to
have
these
discussions
with
my
grandad.
The
year
I
spent
with
him
was
like

living
in
the
land
of
do
as
you
please.
We
ate
ice-‐cream
on
the
occasions
that
we
couldn’t

be
bothered
making
dinner,
and
I
went
from
being
little
and
zippy,
to
chubby
and

breasty.
It
was
the
year
I
turned
thirteen;
the
year
I
started
high
school.
Mum
and
Brian

moved
to
London,
Dad
was
down
in
Melbourne,
because
he
had
a
one-‐year
contract

with
an
AFL
club
there,
and
Anna
was
in
Japan,
on
a
language
exchange
program
for

overachieving
elder
sisters.

I
was
supposed
to
go
to
London
with
Mum
and
Brian,
but
I
said
no.
It
was
the
one
time
I

have
ever
really
dug
my
heels
in.
After
all
those
moves,
going
from
parent
to
parent,

school
to
school,
changing
sides,
changing
roles,
I
just
couldn’t
face
changing
countries.

Not
by
myself.
Not
without
Anna.

It
was
a
strange
year
for
me.
My
paintings
and
drawings
were
childish
landscapes
with

boats
and
moons
and
candles
and
flying
horses.
But
the
books
I
read
from
Grandad’s

book-‐case
were
way
too
old
for
me:
Harold
Robbins
and
Sidney
Sheldon;
sex
and
drugs

seventies-‐style.
What
I
remember
most
is
the
incredible
wistfulness
I
felt.
A
yearning
for

something
extraordinary,
something
magical,
to
happen.

In
the
last
few
months
I
have
been
feeling
the
same
way.

At
seventeen,
I’m
in-‐between.
Staring
at
the
carnival
from
a
distance.
Not
sure
if
I
want

to
go
forward
and
become
an
adult;
liking
the
view
too
much
to
turn
back.
Drinking
and

cars
and
Kane
and
freedom.

All
those
glittering
lights.

While
I’m
walking
back,
a
call
comes
through
on
my
mobile,
and
I
check
the
screen

before
answering,
sure
that
it
must
be
Anna.
It’s
not.
Why’s
she
taking
so
long?

‘How
are
we
today,
Nally?’

Dad
is
big
on
nicknames.
Mine
is
derived
from
Abbie-‐dominally,
as
in
abdominally,
as
in

Rectus
Abdominus,
his
second
favourite
muscle
–
he
couldn’t
find
a
link
between
Abbie

and
Gluteus
Maximus
no
matter
how
hard
he
tried.

‘I’m
okay.
Just
down
at
Walls.’

‘What’s
it
like?’

I
give
him
the
full
conditions
report.
It’s
the
least
I
can
do,
given
there’s
no
beach
in

Brisbane.
He
and
Michelle
moved
up
there
at
the
end
of
last
year,
when
he
scored
his

dream
job
with
the
Lions.

‘Yeah,
I
heard
there
was
a
low
forming
down
your
way,’

he
says.
I
like
the
fact
he
listens
to
the
weather
to
keep
in
touch
with
me.

Dad
rides
a
longboard.
He
wears
dick
togs,
which
is
embarrassing
now,
but
wasn’t
once.

He
grew
up
in
the
lifesaving
world,
and
he
did
his
duty
by
indoctrinating
us
when
we

were
younger
–
putting
us
in
Nippers
for
a
while.

Anna
hated
it.

‘What’s
going
on
up
there?’
I
ask.
‘Haven’t
you
got
a
game
this
afternoon?’

‘
Big
game
this
afternoon,’
he
says
in
his
best
sports
commentator
voice.
‘The
mighty

Pies.’

‘Collingwood?
Going
to
give
it
a
hundred
and
thirteen
per
cent?
Because
it’s
a
game
of

two
halves
.
.
.’

‘And
a
game
of
nine-‐ninths,’
he
says.
‘Also,
interestingly
enough,
a
game
of
sixteen-‐

sixteenths.’

It’s
an
old
joke,
but
sometimes
they’re
the
best
ones.

‘Feeling
good
about
it?’
I
ask.

‘Oh,
I’m
feeling
very
good.
We’re
going
to
–’

I
hear
Michelle’s
voice
in
the
background.

‘But
not
all
of
us
are
feeling
good,’
Dad
adds
quickly,
and
I
can
hear
his
smile
in
his
voice.

‘Shell’s
been
pretty
sick
the
last
couple
of
days
–’

Michelle
says
something
else.

‘Okay
then,
these
last
five
months.’
Dad’s
talking
to
her,
not
me,
and
he
has
to
raise
his

voice
to
get
over
her
next
bar-‐rage.
‘All
right,
six
months.’

This
time,
I
can
hear
Michelle
clearly:
‘You’d
keep
better
count
if
it
was
you
bent
over

the
toilet
all
the
time.’

Dad
laughs.
I
don’t.
Since
Michelle
moved
in
with
him,
I
have
not
had
any
time
alone

with
Dad.
I’ve
had
time
alone
with
her,
but
never
him.
Not
a
minute.
Not
a
single
second.

At
first,
I
resented
her
for
it.
But
then
Anna
pointed
out
that
he’s
the
one
letting
it

happen.
And
that
really
hurt.

‘How’s
your
painting
going?’

‘Great,
Dad.
School
broke
up
on
Friday.
Today’s
Sunday.
That’s
two
days.
It’s
finished

and
it’s
a
masterpiece.
What
do
you
think?’
I
feel
bad
for
sounding
snaky,
but
I
can’t

seem
to
stop
it.

‘I
know,
I
know,’
he
says
quickly.
I
don’t
think
he
does,
though
–
he’s
hopeless
at
keeping

track
of
the
school
calendar.

‘I
was
just
thinking
that
if
you
finished
it
early,
you
might
be
able
to
come
up
before